


The Ghost and Mr. Novak

by Qzil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Breif Claire/Krissy, Ghosts, Multi, Past Castiel/Amelia, Past Meg/Crowley, Past Sam/Meg, Writer Castiel, ghost Meg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 06:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2259453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qzil/pseuds/Qzil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Left with horrible writer's block after his divorce from his wife, Amelia, Castiel moves he and his daughter into a small, Victorian cottage by the sea, hoping a new location will help him write. However, he learns that the house is haunted by the ghost of a young woman named Meg, murdered by her husband in 1901. Meg agrees to let him stay in the house, and he finds himself growing closer to the ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost and Mr. Novak

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously an AU based on the 1947 film The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.

2010

“Here we are,” Castiel announced, slamming his car door shut. “The new house.”

His daughter, Claire, rolled her eyes. “We’ll move in six months when you can’t write anything. I wish I’d gone with mom.”

“You can’t leave the country. Court’s orders,” Castiel reminded her. His ex-wife and Claire’s mother, Amelia, had gone on an extended vacation to visit her relatives outside the country, leaving his daughter with him full-time until she came back.

But if there was one thing Claire was right about, it was his tendency to move whenever writer’s block hit him, thinking a new location might be the key. He’d moved six times since his divorce. Romance was his niche, and without it wife, it was impossible to write for it.

She’d left because she’d claimed that he’d been too focused on his work. Castiel agreed with her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t hurt by it.

Shaking his head to clear it, Castiel hefted a box from the ground and looked at the small, Victorian-style seaside cottage he’d bought for him and his daughter to share. It had been extremely cheap, and was in an isolated location, high in the hills off the small island he and Claire would be calling home. Perfect for writing. “Let’s go see it. It looks rather nice inside, and has a certain kind of charm.”

Claire rolled her eyes again. “Whatever.”

.

It didn’t help.

The house itself was nice enough, but at night Castiel could have sworn that someone was watching him. He found doors left open when he was sure he’d closed them, things moved around, and the television flickered on and off without prompting. The house was always cold, no matter how high he cranked up the heat, with the temperature plunging in some spots. The living room, office, and the kitchen seemed to be the worst spots, and Castiel took to wearing his coat inside.

“The kids at school say my house is haunted,” Claire informed him on day when he picked her up from school. “They said that a lady got murdered in there, and before she died she killed her husband, and now her ghost roams the house, unable to move on.”

“That’s just silly talk,” Castiel told her. “There’s no such things as ghosts.”

“They said that no one’s ever lived in that house for very long, because they’ve all been chased out, and that the only people dumb enough to buy the house or rent it are outsiders, like us.”

“Claire.”

“You know where they say she got murdered? Right in your office, dad! It used to be her bedroom! How cool is that?” Claire gushed. “We’re living in a house that someone died in and now they haunt it!”

_“Claire!”_

“What?”

“You didn’t want to come here in the first place, but you find out that someone got murdered here, and suddenly the house is ‘cool’ to you?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Well, yeah. It’s cool! There’s a ghost in our house! How many people can say they live in a haunted house?”

“There is no ghost,” he grumbled.

.

He walked into the living room a few weeks later and found the television on again, the host of some home improvement show droning from the screen. Sighing, he turned it off before he headed toward the kitchen for a midnight snack, freezing when it flicked back on. He turned it off again, growling in frustration when it immediately turned back on. Suddenly he noticed that the room was very cold.

“I’m trying to watch TV here,” said a dry, feminine voice.

Slowly turning away from the television, Castiel threw a hand over his mouth to muffle his gasp of shock when he saw a young woman sitting on the couch, her arms crossed over her chest. Nearly see through and dressed as if she was attending one of the historical reenactments the Founder’s Club held every year, her sleek blue skirt fell to her ankles, while her trim white blouse hugged her body. The sleeves went all the way down to her wrists, and the shirt’s high neckline came nearly to her chin, ruffles running from the collar to her waist. Her hair flowed down her back nearly to her waist, half of it pinned away from her face, as if she’d been interrupted while she was putting it up.

“Who are you?” he asked quietly. “Why are you in my home?”

“It was my house first,” the woman pointed out. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I’m living here,” he growled. “Obviously, you’re not real. You’re a writer’s block hallucination, produced by lack of sleep.”

Suddenly the woman was right in front of him, hovering off the ground, and blowing cold air in his face, her nose barely and inch from hers. “Do look like your hallucination? You’re in my house, sugar.”

“Ghosts aren’t real,” he stammered. The woman rolled her eyes.

“Guess what, they are. So either go back to bed or sit down and watch TV with me, because I’m leaving it on.”

Stunned, Castiel went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of hot chocolate. When he returned the television was scrolling through the DVR list on its own and the ghostly woman was on the couch, staring at it.

“How can you do that?” he asked.

The woman shrugged. “There are some perks to being dead. You’re taking this awfully well.”

“I haven’t slept in three days.”

She laughed. “I’m Meg Masters. _Not_ Meg Masters Crowley. I didn’t like my husband much and I don’t want to be reminded that I’m stuck with his name, so just Meg Masters. Or just Meg.”

“My name is Castiel Novak,” he introduced himself, automatically holding out his hand. Meg glanced down at it and raised her eyebrows. “Right, you probably can’t touch things.”

She shook her head. “Not really, no.”

“So, you’re not going to try and chase Claire and I out?” he asked as Meg selected an episode of _Love It Or List It._

“As long as you don’t change your Wi Fi password or cancel the cable, no. It sucks having to use your ghost powers to steal cable,” she said. “This takes less out of me. Just leave me alone, and don’t turn the television off or change my recordings, or delete anything off the DVR, and we’ll get along fine. Oh, and no pastels.”

He raised his eyebrows. “No pastels?”

Meg nodded and drew her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them. “I don’t like pastels. You put pastels in my house, you’re gone. That’s why I had to chase out the last couple.”

Castiel nodded back at her. “Alright, no pastels.”

.

“I have one request,” Castiel said a week later when he found the ghost sitting on his couch again, a low-budget moving playing on the screen. She grunted and patted the couch. Castiel sat.

“What?”

“Please, do not contact my daughter,” he said. “She already believes the house is haunted, and I do not need her scared. Ever since my wife left she’s…”

“I was wondering where the little misses was,” Meg interrupted. “But whatever. I don’t like kids. I won’t go near her.”

“Thank you.” They fell silent for a few moments, Castiel sipping at a mug of tea and Meg focusing on the screen. “If I may ask, why do you watch this?”

“I can’t leave the house,” she explained. “I died here, so I’m tied to it. This, House Hunters, all these stupid home improvement shows and documentaries and dumb movies, they’re my only way to travel.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“Would you…would you like to talk about it?”

Meg snorted. “What, you wanna hear the story of my murder? Fat chance, Castiel. What do you even do, anyway? All I see you do mope around the house all day.”

“I’m a writer,” he said proudly. “Not so much anymore. I kind of lost it when my wife left. But I write.”

“So that means you never leave the house?” she asked. “Jesus. I’m stuck with you all the time?”

“Is that bad?”

“I like my privacy,” she said. “I didn’t have much when I was alive.”

“I’ll leave you alone then,” he told her, rising from the couch. “Goodnight, Meg.”

She hesitated then. “But if you…if you ever can’t sleep, then you can come sit with me. Just be quiet.”

Castiel smiled and sat back down. “So, what is this movie about?”

.

He took her up on her offer, sitting with Meg late into the night whenever the words wouldn’t come to him. He knew that his latest attempt was nowhere near as good as his other books, which had been mediocre to begin with. They’d paid the bills, at least. But he had a feeling no one would even glance twice at this one. Books about rich women falling in love with their gardeners were a dime a dozen in the bookstore, but Castiel simply couldn’t put his heart into the book to make it something else, something better, so it would stand out.

He felt the temperature drop in the room sometimes and knew that Meg must be there, invisible, watching him write. He never called out to her, but it did give him comfort to know that someone was there with him.

His wife had done that, sat in his office with him while he’d written, reading her own books or working on something for the PTA or her knitting club. He’d loved that closeness, but apparently it hadn’t been enough for Amelia.

At night he crept into the living room for an hour or so to make a cup of tea or hot chocolate and watch television with his ghost. The two of them sat in silence, Meg completely focused on some exotic part of the world she would never get to see in person, treating a small suburb in Oregon with the same wonder that she did the beaches of Australia.

.

“Claire’s getting into fights,” he told her one day when he felt the temperature drop in his office. Meg appeared next to him, materializing out of thin air.

“Oh?”

“I got a call from the principal. Someone was teasing her, so she hit him. I didn’t know she knew how to fight. And I’ve noticed that she’s wearing make-up. I don’t know who taught her that,” he rambled, closing his laptop. “I can’t concentrate on writing.”

Pressing his head into his hands, Castiel missed the guilty look that flickered over Meg’s face for a moment. “It could be worse.”

“How?” he asked. “My wife is gone, my daughter is acting out at school, and my editor is going to kill me if I don’t turn something in.”

Meg shrugged and held out her hand. “Come with me a sec. I wanna show you something.”

Eying her warily, Castiel rose from his chair and followed Meg through the house, coughing when she led him up the stairs and into the attic. Choked with dust, it was utterly bare, the paint peeling off of the wooden walls. Meg simply shrugged and headed for the far wall, sticking half her body through it so only her skirt dangled from the bare wood, the tips of her boots nearly brushing the floor. Castiel looked away politely until she pulled herself back through and pointed at the bottom of the wall.

“Come and give the wall a good push, will you?”

“Why?” he asked, walking toward her anyway.

“Just do it,” she huffed, smiling when he obeyed. Castiel yelped as the wall shifted and a small, hidden door opened. It stood at the same height as his knees, and he squinted down at it. Meg winked and floated through the wall, sticking her hand back out and crooking her finger at him to beckon him through.

Grimacing against the dust coating the floor, Castiel sank to his hands and knees and crawled through the small opening, his mouth falling open when he looked around the small, hidden room. It was more like a closet, large enough for two people to lay comfortably side by side, and completely dark aside from Meg’s faint glow. Dust and cobwebs choked him worse than they had in the attic, and Castiel realized that none of the house’s owners had known about the room.

“No one knows about it but me,” Meg told him. Castiel turned his head in the direction of her voice and heard a small huff. “I managed to get a flashlight up here a few days ago. _That_ took a lot of maneuvering.”

A sudden light flooded the room, and Castiel bent to pick up the flashlight, frowning at Meg when he moved the beam over her. “This is what you wanted to show me?”

“Yes and no. What I wanted to show you was over there.” Turning, Meg pointed to the other side of the room. Castiel followed her finger, the flashlight’s beam falling over a small, cloth bag shoved into the corner of the room. He ran his fingers over the rotting material, surprised to see that most of it was intact. As if reading his mind, Meg snorted. “Of course it’s still good. No one’s touched it since I put it up here. I wouldn’t try moving it, though.”

“What exactly am I looking at?” Castiel asked. A gust of cold air washed over him, and when he glanced over his shoulder he could see Meg leaning down. The bag opened on its own, and a small, square book floated out of it and into his hands.

Curious, Castiel delicately opened the cover, eyes narrowing to read the words.

_To my beloved daughter Meg,_

_May you record all the happiest moments of your life._

_Your loving father Azazel Masters, 1899._

“This is--I can’t believe this is still here!” Castiel said. “Are you sure I should read this?”

“Not all of it,” Meg said dryly. “Just…” Her eyes flickered over the pages, flipping them without touching them, settling near the middle. “Here. Trust me when I say, it could be worse.”

Shining the beam on the page, Castiel read.

_ January 18, 1900 _

_My father is dead._

_A new century dawns and I am alone in the world. Without Tom or my father I am only left with my hateful husband. If only I was strong enough to run, but I’ve no money of my own. I regret my loyalty to my father’s wishes, for this marriage to Fergus will surely kill me without his support._

_If only I could travel back to that day and convince my father that this marriage was not wise. But now it is too late._

_ January 23, 1900 _

_We buried my father next to my mother in the little cemetery by the sea. He would have liked it, I think, being so near the water. They are together at last after so many years. But how shall I go on without him?_

_Fergus left the funeral early, claiming he had work that needed to be done with my father gone. But Samuel stayed next to me the entire service and gently took my hand in his own. His own father passed last year, following his mother into the grave. He and I are both orphans now in this world, although Sam still has his older brother, even if he is married and living in a different town._

_Sam stayed with me even after all the others had left and held my umbrella on the way back to the house to protect me from the freezing rain. It seemed appropriate that it should rain during the burial, almost like a funeral in a book, but in reality it was only cold._

_As we parted Samuel offered any support that he could give me._

_Lord, how I wish his father had known mine better._

_ March 29, 1900 _

_Fergus has left again._

_He spends less and less time in the house, and even with the maids in residence it feels lonelier than ever without my father here to comfort me. But without Fergus in the house I feel safer, more comfortable. He’s given me leave to renovate my rooms as I see fit, perhaps as a way to lift my spirits. Personally, I think he is sick of seeing a perpetual frown on my face. If only he had given me the money instead of telling the workmen to send him the bill for the improvements, I could have spent little and squirreled the rest away so I could flee. Instead, although it pained me to do so, I sold an old locket of my mother’s. Even if I sold all the jewelry my father left, it would not be enough to finance a new life somewhere. However, my mother’s locket earned me enough money to bribe another young man to do some work of my own._

_I now have a secret room in the attic that even Fergus will never know about, for the young workman I bribed will soon be leaving to start his own life far from here. He is heading south, he says, where the weather is always warm and the sun shines throughout the year. I shall like to follow him one day, I think. But for now I have my small room in the attic where I can hide from my husband and store what little I have to prevent him from finding it. It is more secure a hiding place than the floorboards in my bedroom that hold my treasures now._

_Samuel’s offer still weighs heavy in my mind. With Fergus so often away in the city, I may be fool enough to take it._

Castiel swallowed. Meg had clearly had an unhappy marriage, and it was no wonder that no one had ever found her hidden room, if she’d kept it a secret. He doubted anyone who had owned the house in the past had spent enough time in the attic to look for it, and even if they did, she must have scared them off.

He turned his attention back to her journal.

_ April 26, 1900 _

_Samuel has been a comfort, more than he knows._

_I am sure that the maids are spying on me, ready to report to Fergus about how often I leave the house to walk into town. But they know better than to try to follow me, know that I know that they are watching me and reporting back to my husband._

_The walk to town is so long some days that Samuel usually meets me halfway on the path, where he and I will walk to the shore to stroll near the waves, no matter the weather. Every Wednesday we go to the graveyard together to visit the graves of our parents, to tend to the ground around them and leave flowers._

_Fergus spends most of the week in the city, only returning to me and our small house when he wishes to claim his ‘husbandly rights’ as if to remind me that I am, essentially, his property._

_How I wish my father hadn’t talked me into this marriage, and that he had not talked Fergus into accepting it. But I did what had to be done for the business, and my actions saved it from ruin. I will never regret saving my father’s dream._

_The more Fergus comes home the more I crave Samuel’s gentle words and touches. We talk of books we’ve read and the things we want to see beyond this small town, of our father’s expectations for us and how they trapped us here. Sam wants to run from this place as much as I do, except he does not have a controlling spouse keeping him chained to the small island, only a lack of funds. He wants to see the world, to study, and to make something of himself._

_He should have left with his brother, Dean._

The next few entries were written in quick, tiny handwriting, detailing shopping trips with her husband and nights spent sitting in the foyer, hiding from his attentions. Castiel felt his heart began to pound as he read on.

_ May 3, 1900 _

_Sam kissed me today. Hidden in the trees around the property where the maids could not see us, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me the way I always imagined my husband would kiss me on my wedding day._

_God help me._

Castiel’s palms began to sweat as he frantically flipped through the journal, the entries over the next few months growing longer and longer as Meg expressed increased displeasure with her husband and described her growing relationship with her Samuel. Halfway through an August entry, Castiel licked his lips, realizing that it read like one of his romance novels as the two grew even closer during their walks on the beach and their visits to the graveyard.

And, based on what he knew about the end of Meg’s life, and the fact that she was standing behind him, still so young, reading over her old handwriting, he knew that her affair didn’t end well.

_ October 5, 1900 _

_God help me, I love him. God help_ us _, he loves me back._

_ October 8, 1900 _

_The maids went into town today for their day off, and I brought Sam to the house. We are getting careless, but I find myself unable to stop. I showed him the rooms where I spend my days when Fergus is home, when I am trapped inside and longing for the sea air and the sun on my face. I took him to my secret room in the attic and gave myself to him there on the floor, our clothes the only cushioning against the hard wood under us._

_We managed to slip out undetected just as the maids returned, and he kissed me again under the stars. He knows that I am married, but he does not care. He loves me. I love him._

_I will leave Fergus. We just have to plan. He will never relinquish his control over me through divorce, so Sam and I must find a way to run._

Castiel skimmed the November entries, his face reddening as Meg described her affair, detailing the times she crept back into the attic with Sam or the times they made love under the stars on the beach or in the graveyard, neither of them giving a thought to her husband when they were together.

But Castiel could tell that Meg was anxious. Her handwriting became worse, shakier and less neat, the more she went on, worrying about her husband’s wrath only after she and Sam had left each other. She talked of ending the affair half a dozen times, but always seemed to go back to him.

_ December 6, 1900 _

_I am pregnant._

_Sam is overjoyed, but I am full of fear. I went to Fergus’ bed as soon I as I knew and insisted that we have a child that very night to avoid any unwelcome questions from him. But if Sam and I do not run in the next few months, we shall never get the chance. I will be chained to the house not only through my husband, but through the child._

_Samuel assures me that we will find a way out of here. He has been steadily selling things and writing to his brother, asking either to borrow money or for a safe place to stay until we can find passage across the sea. We will disappear and begin a new life in a new country, together at last without worry or fear._

_He asks me to have faith in him. Despite my fear, faith is the only thing I have._

He skimmed the sections on her pregnancy, and his heart sped up, threatening to jump out of his chest. Meg had never mentioned a child, had said that she hated them. Suddenly worried, he read faster, skimming through the journal and flipping the pages so fast that the corners of the old, fragile paper crumbled under his touch.

_ February 8, 1901 _

_I lost my child._

_Fergus knows. He told me God is punishing me for my wrongdoings. I don’t know how he found out, but he watches me more closely than ever before. In some ways this is a blessing, for Sam and I will not have a third mouth to feed on our journey. Still, I grieve, and I have not yet had the opportunity to tell Sam. I fear his reaction._

_ February 18, 1901 _

_Sam grieves for the loss of our child, but tells me that we shall have as many as I wish once we begin our new life. He has heard from Dean, and his brother has agreed to shelter us. We will make our way south as soon as Fergus departs for an extended stay in the city. Now all we can do is wait._

_ March 8, 1901 _

_Tomorrow we leave under the cover of darkness._

_Fergus will be leaving for the city in the afternoon. When night falls I will slip out of the house to meet Sam and he and I will flee south for his brother’s residence. From there we will board a ship to take us abroad and, hopefully, disappear._

_My only wish is that we move inland, away from the sea, where my husband will never find us. It will hurt to leave the water, to never feel the spray on my face or the salt air in my lungs, but Samuel is worth the trade. My new life is worth the trade._

_Samuel has warned me that we must travel light and bring little with us, but there are a few things I cannot resist taking. My father’s watch, my mother’s wedding ring, the one necklace Fergus gave me on my wedding day. They will all come with me, and I may have to sell them._

_The pendant that contains a piece of my hair that I planned to give to Sam to remember me by should I ever end our affair will come with me as well. Now, however, it will simply be a gift._

_My small bag is hidden in my secret room in the attic, ready for me to come for it tomorrow afternoon. This diary will join the contents when this entry is finished and it, too, will come with me across the sea._

_Whatever happens tomorrow, it has to be better than this._

Castiel flipped to the next page in the book to find it blank.

“I died the next day,” she told him. “Crowley killed me as I was dressing. I don’t know how he found out, or even if he knew we planned to leave. Maybe he just got sick of his wife running around with another man. I never discovered how he found out, in any case. I died that morning, and he did, too.”

“Sam?” Castiel asked. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” Meg said sadly, sitting down in the air and hooking her toes on the rung of an invisible stool. “He lived, I know that much. I saw him, once, years after I died. He was standing just outside the door, staring up at the attic window. He had a cane then, and his hair was gray. I know he married, at least. The announcement was in the newspaper when one of the new owners moved in. But after that I never heard anything else.”

“I’m sorry. About your death. And the child.”

Meg shook her head. “I’ve done my grieving for Sam, and for my son, and for myself.” She rose from her invisible stool and waved her hand at the small bag in front of him. “I haven’t looked at them in years.”

Castiel stared down into the bag and gently reached in to lift the jewelry Meg had described in her diary. The watch had stopped working long ago, the wedding ring no longer shone under the beam of his flashlight, and the sapphire necklace that had been her wedding gift from her husband had long since tarnished. The few clothes in the bottom of the bag had faded to rags, but he shifted through them until he drew out a small pendant on a delicate silver chain.

Gently setting the other pieces on the floor, Castiel cradled the tiny glass pendant in his hands and studied the small, braided lock of hair preserved in the necklace. Woven into a circle, it looked more like a dark stone than hair from far away, and Castiel was sure that if he didn’t know its significance he wouldn’t have thought twice about it, or simply thrown it away.

He was sure that Meg would have made it that way intentionally.

“I did,” Meg said as if she’d read his thoughts. “I didn’t want it to be noticeable, and I had it made for a man. The chain should be long enough so the pendant would’ve rested on his chest, and thin enough that no one would notice it. I thought about ending our affair half a hundred times, and I wanted him to have something to remember me by when I did.”

“Do you regret it?” he asked. Meg shook her head again.

“No. It was better than being with Fergus Crowley for the rest of my life, even with what happened.”

“Do you still love him?”

Meg didn’t answer. “Do what you want with the stuff in there. I can’t use it anymore, obviously. Sell it, keep it, or give it to Claire. The sapphire necklace could probably be polished back up. My husband may have been a controlling, abusive asshole, but he did have good taste in jewelry.”

Castiel turned around to protest, closing his mouth when he saw the room was empty. The cold feeling that that usually accompanied her spirit faded from the room, signaling that she had moved on to another place in the house. Glancing at the small pieces of jewelry on the floor, Castiel hesitated for a moment before he pulled the thin chain over his head and tucked it into his shirt. It settled over his heart just as Meg had said it would, still warm from being hidden under her change of clothes.

.

Castiel left the house without looking for Meg, the pendant thumping gently against his chest as he jogged down the dirt path to the old cemetery overlooking the water. Slowing down as he reached the gate, Castiel hugged his small bag of supplies closer and gently stepped over the tall weeds as he searched for a specific headstone.

The cemetery clearly had not been well cared for over the years. Weeds sprang up over the graves, and several headstones had begun to crumble or fallen over with no one there to tend to them. Still, he spotted enough empty space that he knew that there should be more graves there. He shook his head instead of dwelling on the thought and continued his search, narrowing his eyes to closely study the withered letters of the intact headstones.

He stopped near the back of the graveyard when he found the one he wanted.

Meg’s gravestone was so battered by the elements that he could barely make out her name or the dates carved under it. Gently kneeling in front of her headstone, Castiel set his bag on the ground and pulled out his supplies before he got to work.

He cleaned her headstone as quickly as he could before he picked up the large piece of paper and the thick, square crayon he’d brought. The air turned cold as he rubbed the wax over the paper and Meg’s name appeared, followed by the image of a ship and then, finally, the years in which she had been born and died.

“Meg Masters Crowley,” she said behind him. “Born April 18, 1878. Died March 9, 1901.”

“I thought you couldn’t leave the house.” He raised his eyes and saw Meg perched on top of her headstone, her legs crossed and her feet barely brushing the ground. She shrugged.

“If I try to leave the grounds I wind up here. If I try to leave here I wind up at the house. Where I died and where they put my body, I guess.” She leaned forward to peek into the bag. “You didn’t bring me flowers.”

“If you want flowers I will bring them to the house,” he told her. Castiel tucked the piece of paper holding her name back into the bag. “You were so young.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She gestured to the headstone next to hers. “He’s dead, too. It was a long time ago. I got over it.”

“Why has no one been here to take care of this place?” he asked. “It’s beautiful, and I thought that people had great respect for cemeteries during your time period.”

“I wasn’t always stuck in the house. I was stuck here for the first couple of months I was a ghost, and I spent a lot of time here the first few years. Woke up right where you’re sitting and couldn’t leave for a long time,” Meg explained. “I couldn’t control all my new ghosty powers, so the place gained a reputation. No one really remembers that the stupid thing is here, anyway, except the occasional thrill-seeking teenager. The island’s too tiny to draw tourists or anything, so there really isn’t any interest in it, no matter how old it is.”

“Someone should take care of it.”

“I don’t care, honestly,” Meg said. She stood up, hovering in the air just over the grass. “I’m probably bones now, anyway.”

He frowned. “Still--”

Meg vanished, not bothering to stay and hear the end of his sentence.

Without thinking, Castiel reached down and began to pull the weeds from her grave.

.

“I noticed you haven’t written anything today,” Meg said, appearing on his desk. Shivering from the cold that she brought with her, Castiel pulled his coat closer around him and stared at the blank laptop screen.

He ignored her comment. “Where do you go when you’re not here?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you for days.”

She shrugged. “Sometimes I go down to the edge of the property. Sometimes to the graveyard. I like spending time outside, near the sea. Plus, you can’t see me unless I want you to.”

“I can’t stop thinking about your journal,” he blurted. “About what happened to you.”

“That would make a great book, huh?” she said. “Maybe you should write about me.”

“That might not be legal,” he pointed out.

Ignoring him, Meg waved her hand and one of his books flew from the shelf and opened, hovering in front of her. The pages turned without prompting as she scanned the words. Snorting as she read a sentence, Meg let the book crash to the floor and turned to face him again.

“What?” he asked.

“Sappy romance? Really? I thought you’d write murder mysteries or science fiction or something. You don’t look like one for bodice-rippers.”

“It pays the bills. But I’ve been blocked ever since Amelia left. My writing’s been…”

“Shit,” Meg supplied. “I read a little bit of your new project, and it was shit. No one talks like that, Castiel. Ever.”

He glared at her. “You think you can do better?”

Meg rolled her eyes. “I think _you_ could do better. Go grab some coffee and get ready to write, Castiel. We’re going to be here a while.”

“What are you talking about?”

Meg smiled at him. “You want a sappy romance? We’re gonna write a sappy romance. You pick the title and shit, and we’ll change the names, but we can write about me.”

“I doubt people will like the ending.”

“We can change it,” she said casually. “You’re not writing my biography, Clarence.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Clarence?”

Her smile grew wider. “Go get the coffee. Then we can figure out where we wanna start.”

.

“So, what do you think?” Castiel asked a few days later as Meg read over his shoulder. Hovering in the air behind him, Meg shrugged and put her hand through his head to point at the computer screen. He shivered at the icy feeling that ran through him whenever he accidentally put his body through her ghostly form.

“I don’t like the name Rosemary,” she said.

Castiel moved his head so the ghost’s arm was no longer through it. He was always careful not to try to touch her, and she usually did him the same courtesy. But after days of spending almost every moment together in his study, Meg had become lazy around him.

“What would you like to be called, then?” Castiel asked, turning his chair around to face her. Meg shrugged and rested her head in her hand, putting her elbow on her crossed legs.

“Not Rosemary. Or any sort of Mary.” She blinked at the computer, forcing the backspace key to move as she erased the name. He kept his hands in his lap as she typed the new one out, frowning deeper.

“Mabel?”

“Sam wanted to name our daughter Mabel,” she said quietly. “Dean already had Mary, after their mother. I like it.”

He smiled at her. “Mabel it is, then. Anything else we should change?”

Castiel watched his computer move by itself as Meg scanned through the notes they’d written. “No. I think we’re ready to start.”

.

Claire skipped into the kitchen and sighed when she saw her father dozing lightly at the table, his head cradled in his hands. She poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of him before settling into another chair with her own cup.

“I assume you’re unblocked,” she said quietly. Castiel rubbed his eyes and reached for the mug.

“How’d you guess?”

“You haven’t looked like that since before mom left,” she told him. “You stayed up all night writing, didn’t you?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes. It seems moving worked this time.”

“Good. I don’t want to leave.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh? You hated this house when we first got here. Or do you still think that it is _cool?”_

“It has personality.” Claire shrugged and drained her coffee. “Besides, all the kids at school think I’m brave or something for living in the haunted house, especially after I punched that kid out.”

“You know there’s no such thing as ghosts, right?” he asked. Claire smiled and shook her head.

“Whatever you say, dad. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. Is it okay if I have a couple of friends over this weekend for a sleepover? I promise we won’t barge into your study or make that much noise.”

Castiel smiled softly at her, happy that his daughter was finally making friends. “Of course.”

“Thank you, daddy!” Beaming, she leapt from her chair and kissed him on the cheek before she skipped toward the door, grabbing her backpack from a vacant chair as she went. Castiel watched her go and sighed.

“You shouldn’t lie to kids,” Meg said, sitting down in Claire’s empty chair. She sent the coffee mug sailing toward the kitchen counter and arched an eyebrow at him. “Ghosts are real. I’m proof.”

“You could be a hallucination brought on by stress and lack of sleep.”

“Or I could kill you with a letter opener and make you a ghost, too,” she said cheerfully. “Finish your coffee so we can get back to work.”

“You could just type some of it,” he moaned. “I’m tired. We were up all night.”

“I don’t need sleep, and this is _your_ book, after all,” she pointed out. “Besides, you can sleep when Claire and her little friends are wreaking havoc in my house.”

“Don’t scare them,” he warned her. “I told you I don’t want you scaring Claire.”

“I won’t go near their little party,” Meg huffed. “Now let’s go. Back to work.”

“For someone who died in 1901 you’re awfully impolite.”

“Being murdered will do that to you,” she said cheerfully.

.

Gently closing the door to his bedroom to block out the sounds of Claire and her friends downstairs, Castiel groaned and headed for his bed. His back ached after spending days locked in his study with Meg, frantically typing as she read aloud from her journal and pointed out his inaccuracies. But when he’d nearly fallen asleep on his keyboard she had forcibly close his laptop with her powers and told him that he should get some sleep.

Ignoring how cold his room was, Castiel stripped off his shirt and pants before he stumbled into the bed, not even bothering to pull the covers around him.

Meg rose from her chair and strode over to the bed when she heard his breathing even out. She shook her head at his still form and sighed, using her powers to turn him over on his back and pull his comforter up around him.

“I can’t believe you kept that necklace,” she said quietly. “Oh, Clarence. You’re such a sap.”

.

Hesitating as her friends crowded around the Ouija board, Claire glanced at the stairs before she sat down, pulling her legs up under her chin. The air grew cold and she shivered, smiling. “I don’t think this is good idea, guys. All those sites say not to mess with these things.”

“You live in a _haunted house,”_ Lilith pointed out. The petite blonde tossed her hair over her shoulder and reached down to set the board up. “What are you scared of, anyway?”

“Inviting an evil spirit and getting killed, maybe?” Claire’s other friend, Krissy, retorted.

“We haven’t seen anything all night,” Lilith whined. “Aren’t you _curious?”_

“No,” Claire said. “I read about these things online. Everyone says that they’re dangerous and that it isn’t a game. We shouldn’t be doing it lightly.”

“I’m not asking you to light candles and chant or anything,” Lilith snapped, annoyance creeping into her voice. “I just wanna see if we can _talk_ to it. Now c’mon and put your fingers on the pointer. Both of you.”

Claire repositioned herself and scooted forward to sit opposite from Lilith, gently putting her fingers on the planchette and waiting for Krissy to do the same. The brunette fiddled with her ponytail for a moment before she joined them, nervously placing her fingers on the planchette before she jerked away from it.

“Shouldn’t we turn the lights off, or something?” she asked. Lilith rolled her eyes.

“How are we gonna see our answers then?”

“Just a sec. I’ll go get something,” Claire offered, scampering out of the room. She returned a moment later with one of her father’s large flashlights and clicked it on. “Dad doesn’t want us burning any candles, so this’ll have to do.” She glanced toward the stairs again before she gestured for Krissy to shut the lights off.

“Everybody ready?” Lilith asked. Claire set up the flashlight and nodded, returning to her position on the floor. Nervously, Krissy sat opposite the flashlight and placed her fingers on the planchette. Shivering slightly, Lilith nodded to her friends and shifted, putting her fingers next to Krissy’s. “Are there any spirits here with us?”

Krissy glanced nervously over at her friend before she stared down at the planchette again, relaxing when it didn’t move. “I don’t think so, Lil.”

“Ask again,” Claire encouraged. “The site I read said sometimes it takes a bit, or it said to wait and ask again later.”

“It’s an Ouija board, not a Magic Eight Ball,” Lilith huffed. She cleared her throat and looked back down at the board. “Are there any spirits here with us?” Lilith gasped when the planchette slowly moved, resting on the neatly labeled _yes._

“Ask it another question!” Krissy whispered. Almost angrily, the planchette moved across the board.

“Her,” Claire corrected when it stopped moving. “The ghost spelled out _her._ I don’t think she likes being called an _it.”_ The planchette moved back to the _yes_ space again. “See? Told you.”

“Shut up and focus,” Lilith snapped. “Sprit, how old are you?”

“That’s rude,” Krissy complained. The spirit seemed to agree, moving the planchette around the board. “See? She just spelled out _‘it is’_ so she agrees.”

“Alright. Sorry.” Lilith took a deep breath. “Try to focus, guys. Spirit--”

“We should ask her what her name is,” Claire interrupted. “It _is_ polite.”

“I’m getting to that. Spirit, what is your name?” Lilith asked. The planchette moved back to the no space in refusal. “Did you die here?”

“Lilith!” Claire hissed. “Don’t be rude!”

“It just moved to yes! She did!” Lilith hissed back. Her voice grew bolder. “Were you murdered?”

The planchette circled in place.

“I don’t like this,” Krissy whispered. “Murdered spirits are vengeful, remember? What if we make her angry?”

Lilith ignored her. “When were you murdered?” She smiled as the planchette moved across the board almost sluggishly. “1901? You were killed in 1901?”

It circled around _yes_ before stilling again.

“Lilith, don’t make her mad,” Claire warned.

“Are you the ghost of Meg Crowley?” Lilith asked. The planchette didn’t move. “I said: Are you the ghost of Meg Crowley?”

“M…a…s…t…e…r…s,” Claire read slowly as the planchette moved. “Masters? You prefer Meg Masters?”

The planchette moved back to _yes._

“That was her maiden name,” Lilith whispered. “The woman who died here. So, you’re her?”

It circled _yes._

Krissy looked around fearfully. “Maybe we should stop.”

“What do you want?” Lilith continued. “Why are you still here?”

The planchette didn’t move.

“I think she left. You were asking a lot of personal questions,” Claire said. The planchette moved again, resting on _no_. “You’re still here, Miss Masters?” The planchette circled _no_ almost playfully.

“She’s kinda sarcastic for someone so old,” Lilith commented. She yelped when a pillow suddenly flew off the couch and hit her in the back. “Hey!”

“You made her angry!” Krissy snorted. The soft sound of feminine laughter rolled through the room as the lights began to flicker. The flashlight rolled away from the board on its own, cloaking the room in darkness as the lights stopped flickering.

“Close the board!” Claire yelped. “Lilith, close it!”

“Goodbye!” Lilith shrieked, attempting to sweep the planchette through the word at the bottom of the board. She squeaked in fear as she was forcibly thrown away from the board, Krissy and Claire both flinching away from the planchette a moment after Lilith fell. The two watched in horror as the pointer moved by itself, moving backward through the alphabet.

“What’s it doing?” Krissy whispered. “Claire?”

“It means the spirit’s trying to come through the board,” Claire explained, scrambling toward the Ouija board. She forcibly grabbed the planchette to halt it. “We’re sorry! We’re sorry! Goodbye!”

Claire swept the planchette through the word and ran for the door to flick the lights back on. Krissy trembled against the couch while Lilith stared at her with wide, scared eyes, her mouth hanging open. “Claire, that was--”

_“So cool,”_ Lilith breathed. “Holy shit. I thought you were just fucking with us until the lights started flickering and I got hit with that pillow. We talked to a ghost! I got hit by a ghost!”

“That was scary!” Krissy argued. “Claire, how do you _live_ here?”

Claire shrugged and glanced toward the stairs again. _“I_ don’t make her angry by asking her stupid questions.”

.

Smiling, Meg lifted her head from her hands when she saw Claire creep back out of the living room, a blanket wrapped around her. “Your little friends asleep?”

Claire beamed back at her. “Finally. You scared ‘em good. Thank you.”

“Well, your little friend was being a bit of a dick when she asked me how old I was.”

“Still, thank you. You gave ‘em the fright of their lives.”

“I’m glad you had fun. Just don’t let ‘em say anything to your dad, okay?” Meg stood when Claire nodded. “Make sure you record _House Hunters_ for me down here.”

“Will do!” Claire promised. “Thank you again. Really.”

“Sure thing, kiddo. Now go get some sleep.” Meg watched Claire scamper back into the living room before she turned and climbed the stairs, heading back toward Castiel’s room. Not bothering with the door, she drifted through the wall and settled herself on the bed next to him. Meg flicked her wrist and switched the television on, absently scrolling through the DVR. Castiel groaned next to her.

“Meg, go to sleep,” he muttered. “It’s late.”

“I don’t sleep,” she reminded him. Castiel turned away from her and settled back against his pillow. Instinctively she reached to pull his blanket up higher, pulling her hand away at the last moment. “You’re making me soft,” she muttered.

Turning her attention back to the DVR, Meg settled on an episode of _Say Yes to the Dress_ and turned the volume down.

.

“I think we should stop for the night. It’s late,” Meg said. Castiel glanced up from his laptop and sighed when he looked at the clock.

“We’re almost done with this chapter, though,” he pointed out. “I think we can finish it tonight.”

“I want to take a break today,” Meg protested. “I don’t feel like writing. Not today.”

“What’s today?” he asked. Meg frowned and moved his calendar in front of him. “March ninth. That’s…oh.”

“Yeah, _oh,”_ she huffed. “I’d prefer not to do any work on my special day, thank you. Besides, I don’t think you’re up for writing a sex scene at four in the morning.”

“Is that where we are?”

Meg snorted and re-read the last few paragraphs he’d written. _“I led Richard through the quiet house, stepping softly even though there was no one to hear us. Still, caution was ingrained in me after living with David, and even with Richard beside me I was unable to let it go._

_“He took my hand as we ascended the steps, looking around the house with wonder. It was clear to me that he was impressed by the finery my husband had installed, or else impressed with the decorations that he had allowed me to choose. As a fisherman’s son, I was sure that he had never seen such things, but I paid them no mind, marching up the stairs with single-minded determination._

_“I ignored his questions as I led him deeper into the house. I took him past both my room and my husband’s, not allowing us to stop. I knew it wasn’t safe in there, even with David gone. Instead, I headed for the stairs to the attic, tugging Richard along with me as if my life depended on it.”_

“That’s right. You bring Samuel to the attic and then the two of you, ah…”

“Fuck for the first time, yeah.”

“I was going to say that’s where you consummate your relationship, but, yes. That was the first time you two had sex.”

Meg laughed. “Are you _blushing?_ Clarence, you write romance novels for Christ’s sake. I’ve read a few of your books. There’s sex _in them.”_

“Writing it from my head and writing it down as someone describes it are two very different things,” he argued.

“Whatever. Either way, I’m not doing anything tomorrow. You take a break. Spend some time with Claire or just nap all day. You need it.”

Without waiting for his response, Meg left his office.

.

“Dad, its cold out. Can we go back to the house now?” Claire complained. Kneeling in front of Meg’s grave, Castiel said a quick prayer. “Why are you even bothering with this place? No one we know died here.”

“The woman who lived in our house a long time ago is buried here. She died today,” Castiel explained.

“Yeah, I know. Everyone at school told me that our house was haunted, remember? But I don’t understand why we had to come here.”

“Someone should be taking care of it, don’t you think? This place is so old,” he continued. “Her father’s buried just over there, did you know? With her mother.”

“And her son of a bitch husband is next to her.”

“Claire! Language!”

She rolled her eyes. “Sorry. But he murdered her, Dad. At least, that’s what the papers said.”

“Papers?”

Claire rolled her eyes again. “I did some digging after Lilith told me that we were living in a murder house. According to the maid that was working for them, she walked in to see Mrs. Crowley on the floor, dying. She told the maid her husband had stabbed her. But she died before the maid could call anyone. Not everyone believes it, since she killed her husband, too, before she died.”

“Did they mention anything else?” he asked. Claire shook her head.

“I didn’t look. I just wanted to know who died in our house. They were the only ones, you know. No one else ever lived in our house for more than five or six years, and there were long stretches where it was abandoned. No one on the island wanted to own it. The only people dumb enough to live there were outsiders like us, apparently. Everyone thinks the place is haunted.”

“You know there’s no such thing as ghosts, right, honey?”

“I’m not stupid, dad. But I am going home. Are you coming?”

Castiel shook his head and laid the bundle of flowers he’d brought with him at the base of Meg’s headstone. “I’ll meet you back there. I thought I’d take a break today. We’ll do Chinese for dinner.”

They walked to the gate together, Castiel gently closing it behind him, and parted from Claire, heading down the path toward town. Ignoring his car, Castiel walked the road to town for the first time in months, enjoying the cool spring air. By the time he reached the library his legs ached and he was shivering from the cold, but the slight heat of the building was enough to redirect his attention back to his task.

Grabbing scrap paper and a pencil, he looked up the information Claire had told him, dismayed to find that it was correct. Throughout their novel Meg had continuously refused to tell him how she’d died and what had happened to her husband and he, being courteous, had never asked. But if it was common knowledge among the townsfolk, he wanted to know, too. Especially if his daughter knew.

He found one old newspaper on the subject on a local web site, and discovered that a local author had written a book about the murder back in the 1920’s. He clicked through the sites and the samples of the book that were up for free online, reading through the interviews with the servants that the police had conducted. One, a terrified girl named Ruby, confessed that her employer had ordered them to watch their mistress closely. Another girl named Casey claimed that Meg was having an affair, although they had never found out who it was with, and that the affair was the reason her employer had attacked his wife. Each of the girls spoke of the unhappy marriage between the couple, about how Crowley would watch his wife closely whenever he was home and demand reports when he was away, and how he’d threatened both the maids with physical harm and dismissal if they refused to cooperate.

He swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat as he read on. Halfway through the novel about the murders, Castiel stopped reading, unwilling to invade Meg’s privacy further. He scrolled absentmindedly, not bothering to read the words as they flew across the screen, halting only when he saw several black and white photos come into view.

He could’ve looked them up at home, but it felt wrong somehow, to be looking at the details of Meg’s death in her house. Instead, huddled in the corner of the library as he scrolled through the black and white photos, unable to connect the woman with the tight, unhappy expression on her face to the lively, animated ghost that he saw every day. Sapped of color, she looked angry and unapproachable. Seeing more words under him, Castiel closed the page with the photos on it.

With a bit of digging, he managed to find the photos that had been taken at the crime scene. There were only a few, but they were almost too much for him to stomach. Meg lay on her back near the bed, one hand over her middle, the other still clutching something sharp at her side. Fergus Crowley lay face down near her vanity by the window, a knife lying near his head.

Castiel felt his nose automatically wrinkle in disgust when he looked at Meg’s killer for the first time, the grainy photo showing enough detail that he knew he would never forget that face. The man looked slimy and untrustworthy, even as he smiled for the photographer and attempted to be warm and inviting.

Her wedding photo took his breath away.

It was the only picture he could find of Meg where she was smiling. Standing with a man that Castiel was sure was her father; she was dressed in a beautiful gown that formed to her upper body and flared out at her waist, making her hips look bigger than they were. The sash around her middle was tied at the side of her hip, creating a large bow that flowed down to the floor with the skirt. Castiel could almost make out the detailed lacework on the long sleeves of her dress, but it was the smile on her face that he was drawn to most of all.

Even though Meg had told him that she’d known from the start that her marriage would be unhappy, she was still smiling like it was the happiest day of her life. Her expression, so full of hope and happiness, reminded Castiel of his own expression in his wedding pictures.

His heart dropped when he found out what happened to Sam.

Sam, it turned out, had never made it off the island. He had married a woman named Jess, the daughter of a local shopkeeper, and had kept the shop running with her. He’d died as an old man and, if he looked, Castiel knew that he could find his grave in the same cemetery where Meg was buried.

He printed out Sam’s obituary before he left the library, tucking it into the pocket of his coat. Reluctantly leaving the warmth of the building, he pulled out his cell phone and ordered dinner for he and Claire, cursing under his breath when he realized that it would be cold by the time he made it home. He shivered when he exited the restaurant, stuffing the food under his coat to keep it somewhat warm.

“Why are you _walking_ in the cold, Cas?”

Castiel jumped and turned to look toward the road, relaxing when he only saw that it was Nora, the woman who owned the only gas station on the island, and the woman whose child Claire sometimes babysat. He watched her pull over to the side of the road and frown at him.

“I went for a walk, but I forgot how long it takes to get home,” he explained.

Nora rolled her eyes and leaned over to open her passenger door. “Get in. I’ll take you home before your food gets too cold.”

“You don’t have to go out of your way to do that!”

Nora laughed. “Just get in, Cas. It’s no trouble.”

Castiel hesitated for a moment before obeying, sighing happily when he climbed inside the warm car. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem, Cas,” she said, reaching to turn down the radio. “Claire said you were having a bit of a writer’s block. How’s that going?”

“Broken!” he said happily. “I’m working on a new novel right now.”

“Really? What about?” she asked.

Castiel felt his face flush when he remembered where he and Meg had left off the night before. “Oh, it’s a romance. That’s what I write. Romances.”

“Really? I pegged you more for like sci-fi, or maybe horror. Or do you write supernatural romances?”

“I’m not that popular with the kids,” he deadpanned, smiling slightly when Nora snorted. “Besides, doing something just because it’s popular has never been my cup of tea.”

“You were that kid on the chess team, weren’t you?”

“Debate team, actually.”

She laughed again, and Castiel felt a warm feeling spread through his chest at the sound.

“Well, maybe we can get together and do something after you finish your book,” she said when she pulled up in front of his house.

“Sure,” he agreed without thinking about it. “Thank you for the ride.” He watched her drive off before turning to go in the house, jumping when he saw Meg as soon as he walked through the gate. “Meg!”

“You never told me you had a girlfriend,” she said. He shrugged.

“I don’t. Claire babysits her son sometimes after school. She saw me walking home and offered me a ride.”

“You walked home? Jesus, Cas, why not take the car?”

He ignored her. “I’ll tell you later. I have to get this food inside before it really gets cold and there’s no chance of it tasting good when Claire and I re-heat it. I’ll see you tonight.”

Meg huffed but vanished, leaving Castiel alone in the yard. The sudden cold that always came with her presence left with her so he knew that she had really retreated to some other part of the house.

Shrugging, he went inside to bring Claire her dinner.

.

“What was it you wanted to show me?” Meg asked when he walked into his room and saw her lounging over the bed, hovering a good six inches above the comforter.

“I went and did some research today,” he said slowly. “I found something that I think you want to know.” Reaching into the pocket of his coat, he took the newspaper clipping with Sam’s obituary and held it out to her. Meg frowned and reached for it, letting the scrap of paper hover over to where she was sitting. Castiel watched her frown get deeper as she read, and if she’d been alive, he would’ve sworn that he saw tears welling in her eyes.

“He’s survived by his son, Robert, and his three daughters, Annabelle, Mabel, and Meg,” she read quietly. The scrap of paper fluttered to the bedspread as she snapped her head up to look at him. “He named a kid after me?”

“It seems so.”

Meg shook her head. “Sentimental idiot.”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“It happened a long time ago, Castiel. Time is the one thing you have a lot of as a ghost, and I’ve made my peace with everything that’s happened,” she explained. “It’s time to move on. Get some sleep, because we’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

“Of course.” He reached for his tie and began to unbutton his shirt, stopping when he saw Meg was still in the room. “Meg, um?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a prude. But fine.”

“Not everyone gets to wear the same thing for over a hundred years. Some of us have to change.”

“Well, whatever. But you shouldn’t be embarrassed. You still look pretty good for an old man.” She winked and disappeared, cutting off his reply.

“I am not old,” he muttered as he changed into his pajamas. “I’m only thirty two. You’re over a hundred years old. _You’re_ old.”

“I heard that!” her disembodied voice snapped from somewhere.

Castiel laughed.

.

“And…done,” Castiel declared. He shut his laptop and swiveled his chair around, beaming at Meg. Sitting in the air with her legs crossed and her cheek pressed against her fist, she raised her eyebrows at him.

“Now what?”

“We edit, and rewrite, and edit and rewrite, and then edit and rewrite,” he said. “Hopefully Naomi likes it, and then we’ll see what happens. I hope not to change too much. But that’s all on me.” Glancing at the clock, he frowned. “No more late nights, at least. Not until the next one.”

“You’re on your own for that,” she huffed. “I don’t know how to do happy ever afters, and I don’t have another affair to tell you about.”

“If I choose to do another piece set in that time period you could be a great help,” he pointed out. “I did…enjoy what we did together.”

“It’s not like I’m going to go anywhere now that we’re done with the book,” Meg drawled. “I literally can’t leave. You might, though.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, trying to ignore the clock and stifle a yawn. Meg waved her hand and drew the clock’s plug out the outlet. “Hey!”

“You move around a lot,” she said slowly, waving her hand again when he opened his mouth. “I just know. Seems like it’s a writer’s block thing.”

“Actually, Nora said something interesting that I thought I might try, so no block,” he said slowly.

“Nora? Your girlfriend?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said. “Anyway, she said something, and it got me thinking that I might try something different.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it,” he told her. “Besides, if I do decide to do it, it’ll be a surprise.”

“A surprise?”

“I know you’ve read my other books,” he said. “But this one…I’m still in planning. It’ll be different than the ones I’ve written. I need to get my thoughts in order before I start.”

She frowned at him. “Well, okay.”

The two sat in silence for a while, the frown staying on Meg’s face, before Castiel spoke. “It’s nearly four in the morning. I should go to bed so I can contact Naomi at a reasonable time tomorrow morning.”

.

They stayed locked up in his office for weeks after that, Castiel making adjustments and rewriting page after page with Meg floating behind his shoulder, arguing against some of the changes and agreeing with others, until school started and he was once again forced to wake up early every morning to take Claire to her classes.

“You know, I could probably drive a car if I tried,” Meg told him one morning when he returned. Groping for his coffee mug, he glared at her.

“Absolutely not. Besides, you cannot leave the property.”

“It would be pretty cool, though,” she continued. “I mean, there’s enough room in the yard. We could try it.”

“You can’t even touch the steering wheel.”

“I can’t touch your laptop keys, either, and I wrote most of chapters five and six,” she pointed out. “Besides, what harm could it do?”

“You could crash my car into the house, ruin my car, and ruin our house.”

“Oh, it’s _our_ house now?” she teased. Castiel ignored her, and Meg sighed when he fumbled with his coffee cup. “Let me.”

“I can do it,” he insisted. “You can’t touch--”

Meg cut him off with a glare and, without moving, used her powers to pick up the coffee pot and pour some into the mug. Cream and sugar followed, and it stirred itself, creating a small whirlpool in the mug. She smirked at him. “You were saying?”

“I’m still not teaching you how to drive my car,” he muttered, sitting at the table. Meg threw herself into one of the chairs. “If you can’t touch things, how can you do that?”

“Same way I sit in the air,” she explained. “I’m not actually on the chair, just a little bit above it.”

Nodding, Castiel took another sip of his coffee. “I have some good news, anyway. I checked my e-mail before I took Claire to school, and the book is good to go.”

“That’s great!” Meg said. Castiel nodded again.

“Yes. _A Moonlit Affair_ is officially my thirteenth novel.”

“I can’t believe you convinced me to name it that.”

“Well, it had to have a romantic name, and Naomi thought it best if it matched my pattern.”

Meg stood and wiped her hands over her skirt, as if smoothing out the wrinkles. They stayed where they were. “Well, how about we celebrate?”

“How?” he asked.

“Well, traditionally celebration involves lots of sex and alcohol, but it’s only nine AM, and we can’t exactly do the latter,” she teased, smiling at the look on Castiel’s face. “But I have a _House Hunters International_ marathon recorded down here. We could make fun of people’s decorating.”

“Let me make another cup of coffee and I’ll meet you in the living room.”

.

“Why the long face, Castiel?” Meg asked, perching herself on the kitchen table. Castiel didn’t look away from where he was staring at his laptop and merely shook his head. Instead, Meg peered down at the screen and laughed. “Why are you Googling how to dance?”

“Nora asked me to go dancing to celebrate finishing my novel,” he told her, his voice flat. “But I don’t know how to dance, and I’ve already started a new novel, so I don’t have time. But Claire accepted for me.”

Meg raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know that you were working on a new one.”

“I mainly work on it when you’re not around. It’s meant to be a surprise,” he said. “I have to go now, since Claire accepted for me. But I have no idea how to dance.”

“Well, what kind of dancing?” Meg asked, not pushing him about his new novel. He would tell her when he was ready, she knew. Castiel was nothing if not secretive about his books.

“Well, to be more accurate, we’re attending some sort of historical…thing,” he corrected. “There’s a festival of some sort on the mainland. There will be dancing. Claire tells me that Nora enjoys dancing.”

“Sounds like Claire agrees with me about her being your girlfriend,” Meg teased. Before Castiel could reply she flicked her eyes at the screen and his laptop began to type on its own. Pulling up the song she wanted, Meg hit the pause button and stood up. “Come here. I’ll teach you.”

“You know how to dance?”

Meg huffed. “I’m a little rusty, but yeah. What did you think that ladies learned to do back then?”

“Fair point,” he agreed. “But…I can’t touch you.”

“You don’t actually have to touch me. Just relax, and I’ll show you,” she instructed. Castiel obeyed, staring at Meg’s face as she concentrated on his. After a moment he felt a strange feeling spread through his body, starting at his elbows. Suddenly cold, his fingers began to tingle and his hands moved on their own, one of them settling by Meg’s waist, and the other coming up to connect with one of her hands. Her other palm came to his shoulder, hovering just above the material, so they were almost touching.

“Meg, what--”

“Just relax,” she repeated. “This takes a lot of concentration. Just relax and let me lead, okay?”

He nodded and let Meg lead him around the room, a soft, flowery tune flowing from his laptop. He was awkward at first, his movements jerky as his body resisted Meg’s manipulation. But after a moment he adjusted to the strange cold sensation tingling on his skin and relaxed completely, allowing Meg to take over. She smiled at him, and after a few minutes the two of them were flowing around the table smoothly, Meg guiding his motions with her mind.

If Castiel concentrated hard enough, he could almost feel Meg touching him as she moved him. Her hands slid down his arms, ending at his fingers so that he could twirl her, and Castiel automatically tried to lock their fingers together. For a brief second he could have sworn that they did, his skin touching cold, clammy flesh before they passed through her hands.

Meg glared at him when he tried to grab her. “Let me in, Cas. Just let me.”

He did, twirling her around the room and dipping her so low that her hair almost brushed the floor. The song changed, and he felt the cold feeling retreating from his limbs and found that he could move them without resistance again. “Meg?”

“Now you lead,” she instructed. “Just do that same thing. Move your hands like you can touch me. Don’t worry about going through me. I got you.”

He did, her long skirt moving through his legs as he faked pulling her closer and she obligingly followed his movements. Like always, the feeling of the ghost moving through him sent a shock of cold through his system. But this time Castiel leaned into it, practically craving the cold feeling that came with Meg.

“You’re doing great,” she encouraged him. “Now, dip me.”

Moving awkwardly, Castiel did. One of Meg’s hands ghosted from his shoulder to hover a hair’s breadth above the skin of his cheek, and he could feel icy air pouring off her face, their noses so close that, if she was alive, their lips would be about to touch.

The silence stretched as the song ended and the room grew quiet. Castiel leaned down, attempting to draw her body closer. But all he felt was cold. The coffeemaker switched on in the background, the sudden noise breaking the spell. Meg smiled sadly.

“You can let go now,” she said quietly. Castiel lowered his arms and stepped away.

“I should write.”

“I think you’ll nail it with Nora,” Meg told him. “Your girlfriend will be impressed.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said automatically as he left the room.

Meg waited until she heard his office door shut before she sat down on the air. “She should be.”

.

Castiel kept himself locked in his office as much as possible for the next week, emerging only to eat, sleep, and drive Claire to school. Meg tried to enter several times, cursing when she saw that he’d placed a line of salt in the doorway, and had no doubt sprinkled it along the base of the walls as well. She considered simply going down through the ceiling, but then decided not to. If he was that determined to keep her out, she figured that she should respect his privacy.

Instead, she found herself spending more and more time with Claire, even though he had forbidden it. Meg had never been one to listen when she was alive, and as she told the girl, she wasn’t about to start listening to a man’s orders now that she was dead.

“That’s the best part about being a ghost,” she’d told the girl. “You don’t have to listen to anybody.”

So she listened to Claire pour out her girlish worries about school and friends and boys and other girls, listened to her talk about her mother, Amelia, and listened to her worry about visiting her, and even listened to Claire read her several of Amelia’s letters out loud.

In return, Meg told her stories about her own childhood and her father, Azazel. She told her that she was sure that Amelia still loved her, despite her mother’s extended ‘vacation’ to visit family in Germany after her divorce.

“I wish you were alive,” Claire said one night. “Not just because, y’know, being dead sucks. But because then we could do this all the time, and I wouldn’t have to keep it a secret from dad, and maybe you could marry him.”

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself there,” Meg told her. “You know that your father and I are friends. But I’m dead, Claire. No matter how physical my presence here may seem, no matter how… _attached_ to this realm I am, I’m really, really dead and gone and rotted. Anyway, we are just friends.”

Claire snorted. “Have _you_ read any his book? The new one that he’s writing right now?”

“I can’t get in his office anymore,” Meg admitted. “Claire, we haven’t even talked in the last week.”

“I’ll clear the salt out tomorrow before I go babysit Nora’s kid,” Claire volunteered. “When he goes on his little date, you go in and read it. You should.”

Meg nodded, a little embarrassed to find herself obeying the orders of a fourteen year old girl. “Alright, fine. Wait…did _you_ read it?”

“Yeah. I snuck in when he was sleeping.”

“You’re too much like me,” Meg said. Claire laughed.

.

She obeyed Claire anyway, waiting until she saw Castiel’s car disappear around the corner before she rushed to his office and sat herself in his chair, flicking his laptop open with a glance. Despite her ghostly body, Meg still felt her heart drop into her stomach when she read what he was working on. Scrolling through it, she felt it leap into her throat instead and swallowed. If she had been alive, tears would be welling in her eyes.

His new book was about _them._

Scanning quickly through it, Meg’s eyes widened the more she read. She scanned through her character, Linette, meeting his character, Charles, for the first time, a sick feeling starting in her stomach when she recognized the quiet fight over Linette turning the television on and off when Charles was trying to sleep. She scanned through Linette telling Charles about how she’d died, scanned through Linette showing Charles her secret room and diary pages, scanned through Charles wearing the pendant that had been meant for Linette’s lover, always keeping it close to his heart.

She scanned through cemetery visits and Charles weeding the graveyard, trying to make Linette’s final resting place and the final resting places of her family pretty again, and reached to wipe away tears that could not come. She hadn’t visited the cemetery in months, preferring the comfort of the house and the life that Castiel and Claire brought to it, so she hadn’t known that Castiel had been cleaning up her grave, or her father and mother’s graves, or Sam’s grave.

She stopped when she reached the final scene Castiel had written. After Linette had taught Charles how to dance, the man had shut himself up in his office, pondering why she encouraged him to date someone else, a woman named Kitty, and why he felt so odd about accepting a date with her. In it, he talked about how Charles was convinced he’d felt Linette’s fingers brush his for a moment, and that in that moment Charles, against everything that was possible, had wanted to lean down and kiss her.

Meg blinked, her powers spiraling out of control as dread filled her, and the page shot up. The title, written in larger font, stared back at her, a short dedication underneath it.

_Flowers for a Ghost_

_To a wonderful woman, who has helped me through so much. Thank you._

Trembling for the first time in a hundred years, Meg closed Castiel’s laptop and left the house for the graveyard. Ignoring her own grave and her father’s, she knelt in front of Sam’s, his name clearly visible now that Castiel had washed his headstone and pulled away the weeds.

“I loved you,” she said quietly. “I love him now, but I really did love you. I should’ve said no when my father wanted me to marry Crowley, but I was married to him. I shouldn’t have touched you, or looked at you, or wanted you. I should’ve stayed far away from you and with my husband, no matter how horrible he was. Just like I should’ve stayed away from him.”

Turning around, Meg spread herself out on the grass and picked at her skirt. “I never learn, do I? I never learn to stay away from men that I have no business being near. You were better off without me and with your Jessica. He should be with Nora, too.”

Closing her eyes, Meg puffed her chest out like she was taking a deep breath, something that had always relaxed her when she was alive. She knew now that it was her fault that Castiel was resisting Nora’s advances. Why would he look for a real woman to grow old with, and to be a mother to Claire, when he was already playing house with someone? Someone that would never die before him, or leave him, because she physically _couldn’t_ leave the house he lived in, not without going into the light?

Opening her eyes, Meg stared up at the stars. They seemed to glow, calling her.

“Alright, Sam,” she said. “I guess it’s time.”

.

He was asleep when she returned. Slipping past Castiel’s room, Meg glided into Claire’s and sat down on the bed, waiting. Blinking awake at the sudden drop in temperature, the girl sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Meg?”

“Hey, kiddo, you know I like you, right?” Meg asked. “Just know that, okay? You’re awesome. And I don’t like kids, so that’s saying something.”

“Meg, what are you saying?” Claire asked. “Are you…are you going somewhere? I thought you couldn’t leave the house!” Scrambling to sit up, Claire automatically tried to grab Meg’s shirt, flinching when her hands went through it. Defeated, she hunched her shoulders. “Is it because dad’s in love with you?”

“Yes,” Meg answered stiffly. “He needs a real life, Claire, with a real woman.”

“But he loves _you.”_

Meg shook her head. “He won’t remember me, not really. It won’t hurt him, I promise. I’ll make it seem like it was all a dream. But I couldn’t go without saying goodbye to you, too.” Leaning down and concentrating hard, Meg gently placed her lips on Claire’s forehead. The girl shivered by tried to lean into Meg’s almost-there touch, anyway. “You’ll see me again, I promise.”

“Goodbye, Meg,” Claire said sadly. Meg smiled at her and vanished, waiting until the girl fell back asleep before she made her way to Castiel’s room.

Lying on his back in only a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt, Castiel didn’t stir when Meg entered, despite the drop in temperature. Meg figured Nora had exhausted him on the mainland. Grateful, she kept her distance, resisting the urge to crawl into the bed next to him. Instead, she sat in the armchair on the other side of the room.

“This is all your fault, you know,” she said quietly. “I was dead, and happy, and you came along and did this. Filled the house with noise and books and kids and coffee. You made me feel alive again. You made me fall in love with you.” Sighing, she tipped her head back to look at the ceiling. “I have to go. You need to find someone who loves you, who can grow old with you and have babies with you and be Claire’s stepmother. I can’t trap you here. I’d be no better than Crowley, then.”

Giving into the urge to be near him, Meg got up from the chair and walked to the bed, leaning down until they were so close that, if she had a physical form, their noses would be brushing. “So you have to forget me, like I wish I could forget Crowley. It was all a dream, Castiel, all the time we spent together. There’s no such thing as ghosts, you know that, and Claire knows that. Ghosts are an impossibility. I didn’t help you with the book. You wrote it all on your own, inspired by the journal of the woman who lived in this house so long ago. You found it, and you read what happened to her, and you wanted to give her a happy ending. _Flowers for a Ghost_ is for Claire, inspired by the stories of the house being haunted that she brought home from school. You wrote it for her, not me. It’s for your _daughter.”_

Straightening, Meg looked down at Castiel and reached to touch him, drawing her hand away at the last second. “This is on both of us, Castiel. Or the universe, or whatever happened to make this whole big cosmic joke we’re in,” she said. “You were born too late, or I was born too early. Had you been born in my time, I would have married you as soon as I could, and been a mother to Claire. You should have been born back then. You should have been the one I fell in love with first.”

She smiled then. “See you on the other side, Cas.”

Meg turned her back on him, glided out of the house, and walked toward the stars.

.

_2047_

Grumbling when he heard the shrieking of a car horn, Castiel opened the door and found his arms full as his daughter hugged him. “Daddy!”

“Princess,” he greeted gruffly, bending to kiss his cheek and wincing as his back cried out in pain. “To what do I owe this surprise visit?”

Claire beamed. “Dad, I have someone for you to meet. Krissy, come here! Dad, you remember Krissy Chambers, right? From when I was a kid? Well, turns out we work at the same school, and we reconnected a couple of months ago, and well…”

“We’re engaged,” Krissy blurted. Stunned, Castiel watched his daughter lean over to give the dark-haired girl a quick peck on the lips.

“It’s it wonderful, daddy? We could have the wedding here!”

“I didn’t even know you were seeing anybody,” he stammered. “I…I never thought you’d get married.”

“Oh, well, I wanted to do all my travelling first, you know. I didn’t think I’d ever settle down, either,” she admitted. “But then Krissy and I reconnected, and we really clicked. Can we please, please have the wedding here?”

“Of course,” Castiel said, recovering. “Come into the kitchen, girls. I’ll make some lunch.”

“So, what do you think?” Claire asked when Krissy excused herself to the bathroom. “It’s fate, huh?”

“I suppose it is,” Castiel mused. “Although, I did not know she was your…type. I though you liked redheads.”

“You know I have a thing for brunettes,” Claire teased. “Always have, ever since I was a child. Meg left her mark on me, I guess.”

Castiel froze. “Meg?”

“Yeah, you know, the ghost that used to haunt the house,” Claire said casually. “I stopped seeing her just before my first visit with mom when she came back. She said she had to leave because…well, I don’t have to tell you _everything._ But she left.”

“I don’t…Claire, there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“She wrote _A Moonlit Affair_ with you, dad.” Claire rolled her eyes. “I’m an adult now. I know that she wasn’t supposed to talk to me, but she always said that she didn’t take orders from a man when she was alive, so she wasn’t going to start now that she was dead. I always thought she was the reason you didn’t marry Nora.” She smiled. “I was half in love with her, you know. She taught me how to fight when kids at school were teasing me, and she taught me how to put on eyeliner. She was the very first person I told when I knew I liked girls _and_ boys. I kind of wanted her to be my mother, but I also kind of wanted to marry her. But I knew you loved her, too, and you were closer to her age. Sort of.”

Castiel quietly absorbed the information. “I…I think I remember. But they were dreams, Claire. Something about this house made me dream of her, and reading her journals didn’t help that. You must have dreamed of her, too, knowing what you knew about the house.”

“You wrote _Flowers for a Ghost_ for her,” Claire argued.

“I wrote it for _you._ I wanted to write a book that you could read. Supernatural romances were popular when you were young, remember?”

“Then why do you still wear this?” Claire demanded, reaching over and pulling Castiel’s necklace out of his shirt. The small lock of braided hair, preserved in the pendant, gleamed in the faint light. “I still have the necklace she gave you to give to me, too. You loved her.”

“I’m not going to argue with you anymore, Claire,” he said. “Honestly, you should know better by now. Of course you and Krissy can have your wedding here. I wish you many children, if you still want them, or many well-behaved pets if you do not.”

Claire stiffened. “Alright. I’m going to take Krissy back to our hotel. I promised to show her around town, and I promised to drop in on Nora while I’m here. I’ll see you later, dad.”

Collecting her girlfriend, Claire leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You’ll remember, I promise. Don’t think I’m crazy.”

Castiel watched her go.

For the rest of the day he pondered his daughter’s words as he moved throughout the house, straightening things and reading. Occasionally, he fingered the pendant sitting around his neck that held the lock of hair, leaving it on even as he readied himself for bed, more exhausted than usual.

Yes, he had never remarried after Amelia, even though Nora had clearly wanted a romantic relationship. And, yes he had never published another book after _Flowers for a Ghost_ was finished, instead opting to retire in order to spend time with his daughter. He had never even moved from the seaside house on the small island, feeling a strong connection to it.

He had wondered to the small graveyard once a week to bring flowers to Meg Masters Crowley, Azazel Masters, Abaddon Masters, Sam Winchester, and Jessica Winchester. The woman’s journals had helped him write his most successful books, after all, and he owed her the courtesy of keeping her grave clean. But that didn’t mean he was in love with a dead woman.

Brushing Claire’s words off, Castiel curled up in the old armchair in his bedroom with a book, feeling sluggish. His body hadn’t been working right the past couple of days, and he had a doctor’s appointment scheduled the following week to figure out why, although he supposed that it was age catching up to him. But he wished that he could move it up. Still, he was happy that Claire was finally engaged and had found someone to grow old with, like she had always pushed him to do.

The faint memory of someone else telling him to find a wife to grow old with wormed its way into his head, but Castiel pushed it away, too tired to focus. His eyes drooped, and he set his book aside, promising to pick it up again in a moment.

Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his chair, breathing shallow. After a moment, his heart slowed, then stopped, and Castiel Novak died.

.

“I see you didn’t follow my advice,” Meg said quietly, reaching down to grab his hands. After years of waiting, she linked his fingers with his and pulled Castiel’s spirit from his body to stand in front of her. As young as the day she met him, he smiled at her and gripped her hands as hard as he could.

“I forgot you,” he said quietly. “You left me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

Smiling, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Meg smiled back and moved to slip her arm through his. “Time to go. Claire will be fine, I promise.”

Castiel turned around for a moment and studied his bedroom, eyes lingering on his former body before he looked away. “Alright.”

Meg steered them toward the door, and together they walked into the light.


End file.
